The Warrior King
by The Warrior Prince
Summary: Crimean war-forces were the end of the once-great nation, Altea. But far more is at work here than a group of mercenaries and an epidemic. Dark forces are awakening, and Altea was just the beginning of the end. (Eventual IkexMarth, various other pairings that may include but are not limited to LinkxZelda, ChromxRobin, and more.) (Rated M for gore and eventual adult themes.)
1. Prologue

**The Warrior King**

_**Prologue**_

A dreamless sleep eluded him, of that he was sure. He had awoken in the midst of an accidental nest of blankets and pillows, with a distinct feeling of horror. But as he stared up at the grand canopy of his emerald-clothed four-poster bed, he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was. Deciding that was for the best, the young royal sat up and began to leave his bed, fearing that sleep would bring the dream back. Trudging groggily through his regal room, bathed in the silver hues of the moon, he reached his balcony and stepped outside. The castle grounds were surely spectacular, with exotic plants of every color winding around stone walls, pillars and statues. But tonight, the Lowell hier just wasn't into the beauty, preferring to contemplate more pressing issues. The land of Altea he so adored was under nature`s siege. plague was tainting the land, and its people, all throughout the nation. It became such that neighboring states, Crimea in particular, were at it`s borders, salivating like wolves at the thought of their next meal. Altea`s borders were holding, but it was just a matter of time before they wouldn`t. Unholy as it was, the plague took hundreds from his kingdom in days, giving no warning before it would strike next. So far, the capital remained the only unaffected city, but he doubted that would last long. Something had to be done for Altea, and with his father unable to address the matter, ignorant, stupid man that he was, there really was no hope for his once-great nation. And as the only male child birthed to the Lowell name, Marth knew he would be second in line for whatever end Crimea decided, right after his dunce of a father. He almost hoped that the plague would reach him first, it would be far more merciful.

_**Author`s note:**_

**Love it? Hate it? Let me know, as I will only continue this story if people care about it.**

**Thanks to Mekkor911 for letting me know about my previous failure of `Marty`. Reviews are appreciated, and greatly longed for.**

**Needed Information:**

**This story will have people in the SSB series, as well as added Fire Emblem characters, because it does take place in my version of the Fire Emblem world. That said, it includes nations like Plegia, Ylisse, Crimea and Altea, though those don't necessarily all fall into the same game.**


	2. Fall of the Lion

**The Warrior King**

_**Fall of the lion**_

How cliche. It was pouring. Marth supposed it was fitting, however, that even the weather be in mourning for the events to come. He also believed that, had the pitiful remainder of Altea`s army been outside to meet the Crimean forces, they would have had one hell of a time sloshing through the mud and trying to aim at anything through the sheets of rain coming down. But they were not on the front lines to defend the abandoned city. When the Crimean war-forces were spotted by a scout a mere two hours ago, the city had been promptly evacuated. The hundred or so men, counting himself and his father, that had stayed behind were fortifying the castle, preparing for a siege. There was no way they could defend the entire city with their minimal forces, and there was no reason to. No-one was left to protect. As such, the small force had decided to make their final stand in the almost citadel. The soldiers didn`t expect to survive, they would be blessed if they made it past the second night. So why, then, did they stay, when the odds were so hopeless?

The second archer in line from the far left of the castle's outer courtyard walls was doing it for his friend. His friend whose wife had a child on the way. He refused to rob that child of their father, they surely deserved better than that. The archer had lived a good life, twenty six years of it, and he believed it was his job to fight.

_Someone had to do it. Why not him?_

Then the general in charge of the soldiers barricading the large, wooden front castle doors was doing it for his wife. His young, beautiful wife. They had been married for seven wonderful years, and were blessed with a five year old son whose life revolved around building things. Bright kid, he was, and the general was very proud of him.

_He had many thing he was leaving behind, but he was still a single life among many._

And the soldier in the second row of twenty, slightly offset from the middle, was doing it for his brothers. Three of them. He wasn't even the eldest, because their eldest brother had always been the caretaker of them all, and the two younger ones, ages ten and twelve, needed him. The middle son had always been more of a background character anyways. He was nothing more than average, and he wanted to make up for that. For once, he was going to be a hero. For once, he would make a stand. Ironic, really, that his first would also be his last.

_But it wasn't about him._

Every single man at that castle was equal, made so by a common desire and drive to give people hope. Even the king was humbled by circumstance, and the prince was no different.

Marth was dressed simply, and lightly. His shirt was made of simple blue cotton, and it wasn't even a particularly pretty shade of the color. It was just there. His leather breastplate was plain as well, since he had managed to find one in the public armory that fit his slim frame. And covering his feet were his worn-out riding boots, still with mud caked onto them from his last outing in poor weather. The only two ways he was any different from the common soldiers around him were his headband and his sword. The blade, Falchion; he called it, could not be parted with. Marth had been training on it since he was old enough to have a real blade, and he refused to choose another sword. Especially on this, his last, battle. And the headband crowning his blue tresses was why he fought. Not the curved strip of gold itself, but what it symbolized. It was a sign of his royal lineage. A physical reminder of the many people depending on him to lead them, and the civilians depending on his force as a whole. He was neither wearing it to show his power, nor did he expect anything good to happen because he had it on. The prince honestly just needed something tangible to remind him of why he was so desperately needed here. Of why he couldn't run. And as the faintest view of the Crimean army appeared through the brutal storm, that reminder became all the more important.

Initially, like every other male in their right mind that had seen the enemy forces, the noble wanted to bolt.

It was one thing to know that you would die a gruesome death.

It was something else entirely to see the means of said death slowly marching toward you in the flesh and steel.

Crimea had come prepared for a slaughter.

As far as sight allowed, men were seen marching forward, with all manner of siege weaponry. Flying the red emblem of Crimea proudly were the massive wooden towers grating through the wet earth, creating trenches in the mud that the soldiers parted to avoid. The towers were menacing skyscrapers, reaching their tips to the heavens, ripping through the sky as they lurched on.

Walls of shields marched to the castle's stone courtyard barriers, leaving no openings in the hard steel for arrows to pierce their ranks. Beneath the metal barriers were living tanks. Men dressed in full armor, bearing the dragon of Crimea, carried their weapons in iron axes were held at the ready, great swords unsheathed. These beasts of men would spill blood today, and they would raise their colors in place of the noble lion symbolizing this fallen empire.

"_**Aim for the towers and await my command!"**_

The King`s voice rang out amongst his troops perched on the walls, bolstering their dwindling courage just enough to enable them to notch their arrows and take aim, straight at the wooden abominations just within the boundaries of striking.

"_**Fire!"**_

An arrow was loosed. Two, three. Packs of them began to whizz their way across the sky, cutting through the torrents like a hot knife through butter. Once they met their mark, they cut through flesh just as easily, turning dozens of Crimean men into pincushions, sending their souls to hell and adding their bodies to the storm raining down upon the invaders. Marth took aim with his own bow, determined to slaughter as many of the opposing forces as he could,any way he knew how. Letting the string loose, he added his own arrow to the relentless flock of prey-birds, and quickly lost all distinction of which was the one he released.

The prince sincerely hoped that a soldier of the enemy would be met by the lethal end of that stick.

Fear had left him, making way for the torrents of adrenaline flooding his system. Rage was all the sixteen year old prince felt. It did not matter that they were outnumbered. It did not matter that enemy forces were pushing through the first layer of courtyard barricades. It did not matter that the towers were getting ever closer. _All that mattered was making sure that something sharp or agony-inducing ripped through men of Crimean decent._

He didn't know how long they were there, sending wave after wave of their airborne sentinels into flesh, stopping abomination after abomination dead in its tracks, as there were nothing but shells of life inside to crank the wheels necessary to keep the towers in motion. One thing he did know, however, was that his supply of projectiles was running dangerously low. He was running out of their only defence without the significant loss of Altean life, and all the other noble souls that had been diligently standing by his orders after his father had went inside were as well. It wouldn't be long until their bows would be rendered useless, the need for the curved wooden stick no longer compelling enough to bother to keep the useless item. Archers that spent their lethal currency quicker than others had done the last thing that would make the carrier of that ever-important currency useful:they had thrown the sturdy planks of delicately carved wood into the opposing ranks, doing little more than irritate the unfortunate soldier on the receiving end. Joining his brethren in this last moment of euphoria, he tossed his down as well, watching when it bounced harmlessly off of the shields and was trampled underfoot, leaving only ill-will and an oddly shaped dent in its wake.

"Draw your blades, men. We will wait out the night inside. We've done all that we can do here."

**Author's note:**

**Still hate it? Love it? Let me know! I cherish each review I've received, and the PM really made me happy. I`m thinking Thursday updates will be regular, but every two weeks until my robotics build season ends, then updates will most likely change to weekly, along with longer chapters, if you wish.**

**Also. For a new story after my build season ends.**

**Are you guys feeling a zombie apocalypse? High School satire?**

**Comment ideas, if you have any.**

**Needed information:**

**Crimea`s symbol is a red dragon emblem, Altea`s is a blue lion emblem, Plegia`s is a purple unicorn emblem, and Ylisse has the mark of the exalt. Those are just symbols the countries use, and it`s a way of identifying military personnel, as well as showing ownership, in this case. **


End file.
